blue
by RunawayBurleigh
Summary: My heart always lingers below my skin, and it always stays below the surface so I can never show anything. I can never let any person or thing see inside. Not anymore." [Language, themes]


I've always wanted to cut myself open. To make a smooth incision and find what's inside. What I want isn't the glory and beauty others find in cut wrists and legs or split stomachs. It's not the same for me; no, I want to see something different.

I want to slice my heart open on the inside; I want to see how it continues to keep beating and keep aching after all of these years. Some nights as if it would never see the light of day again. Not that my heart has ever seen the light of day, of course not. Because my heart always lingers below my skin, spreading its pain through veins and muscles, limbs crying out in pain as it cries, and yet it always stays below the surface so I can never show anything. I can never let any person or thing see inside. Not anymore.

I've heard that part of a man's blood is blue. I have always wanted to see it, for the thought of leaking blue instead of red intrigued me. Inside my heart there could be nothing but blue blood; this rich, thick liquid that shines like night. I could be mysterious, a wild child with flyaway limbs that ran into the dark of night with blue blood pounding through my veins. I could be like Wren: she was just as dangerous as I; she had blue blood, too.

Too many people like blue. They sit at home, surrounded by blue walls, wearing blue ties, blue blazers and blue skirts. But they don't want to see the rich blue flowing so freely inside their own bodies; they don't even want to _think_ about it. They never think of being blue inside, where it counts. Where it hurts. I think of it all the time these days. It haunts my insides continuously, gnawing at my heart until there is nothing left of me. Much like she did.

Our love was venomous, deadly. Ha, love? Have I paired the thought of her with that of love? I must be more insane than I realized. We were deadly to each other, poisonous. We were tangled in each other's blood. We broke each other's hearts with deadly words and guarded eyes. We were enemies. We were lovers.

_ She broke through Spot's window using a few rocks; his window was one of the best windows in the lodging house, one of the few left intact from the boys shooting their slingshots all over the place. They didn't care if the place was trashed; they just needed a place to keep them from getting picked up by the cops at night. And she broke through, smiling with a grotesque gleam in her eye. Spot was startled into a sitting position, awakened by the crashing glass, the crunch of shards on the floor._

"Jesus, August, why'd you have to fucking break the window?" He hissed angrily, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He was covered in it; she was covered in it. Ninety degrees in the dead of night.

"Jesus, Spot, how else do you want me to get in? The window's stuck," August mocked. Her brown hair was reduced to strings by the time she made it over to Brooklyn. She knocked the glass from her boots with one of the rocks. "And don't ask why I'm wearing boots in summer," she continued, as if reading his mind. "Wren stole my shoes and I had to wear her godforsaken boots. My feet are so fucking hot in these."

As she removed the boots, Spot sighed and stood, throwing the sheet off of him quickly, and went to the window. He pushed the thoughts of Wren out of his mind. Wren was the one who left him. Who defied him. She would be his again someday. After fumbling with the expanded wood for a bit, he had it opened. Already he was itching inside. Already that night was different from the rest. Already the silence was beckoning to him. "Window isn't stuck, you stupid bitch. You're just too dumb to open it."

"Yeah, well you have to admit that it's a good entrance, nonetheless," August mumbled. She glanced at his naked body as he stared out the window, illuminated by moonlight. It held a ghastly glow, pale, bare chest with tan arms. He hadn't been swimming lately. What was she, crazy? Spot Conlon never swam. He always thought himself above that. Burning, she itched to get out of those clothes. "So, what, are we here to talk all night, or what?"   
---

Before she left, Skittery caught her by the arm.

"August, where are you going?" He asked quietly. "I thought you were gonna stick around here with me tonight." Already his eyes were saturated with lust, his wanting for the whore. She left herself open to anyone. As much as she hated it, she loved it just the same, for it got her the attention she thirsted for.

"Sorry, Skittery, I got other things to attend to," she replied, refusing to lose her cool. Spot was her favorite. Feared and strong, her senses always led her to him and his ferocity, his violence, his sexuality.

"Well, if I would have known, I would have set someone else up for tonight," he told her, his brow furrowing. Seeing his frustration, she gave him a half-smile. August always had a fondness for Skittery above the other boys in the entire city, but tonight was the night saved especially for Him. She loved him. Fondness could never compare to the will of Spot Conlon. Fondness could never compare to pure, unadulterated fear.  
---

_ "Anxious, are we?" He asked, smirking. "We have a deal, now, August." Wiping more sweat from his brow, he leaned against the windowsill. God, it was hot. It was always hot when August came around; she detested cold weather. August in August. Otherwise he'd have to screw Wren. Wren was such a little coward; August was like her in that way, yet August always liked to pretend she wasn't afraid. He glared at her, resenting her already for trying so damned hard around him; his eyes still light against the pitch black of the room._

She was the only connection left to Manhattan. Even his boys told him that he'd distanced himself from the other boroughs far too much. August wasn't truly herself with him anymore. He just wanted her to be herself again. He loved the way her eyes flicked away from him in trepidation, the way her hands shook in fear but were clenched into fists, trying to hide it from him. He adored her fear, every second of it, the scent of it, the taste, the touch.

Finally, August sighed and pulled a blade from the hilt of her skirt. Her movements were staggered, not smooth, not as smooth as Wren was. She knew that by not measuring up to her predecessor, Spot was more apt to see her shortcomings and be angered because of them, no matter how small they were. While watching it shine, the blade's sharpness, the handle's intricacies, she said, "I should have listened to Wren. She knew about bastards like you."

"Ah, yes, Wren knows all about me, darling_," he replied softly, watching her wistfully, still lost in earlier memories of her. He needed her to be weak, to be sweet, to be nothing for him. "Wren was stupid enough to think that she could get away. I've got her number, now." A sharp, harsh laugh rose from his chest. Wren would never escape. Always she would be enamored by his beauty, his dominance. She grows weak at the scent of his sweat; she fears a death at his palm; she shares his love for the thought of blood. He will always have control over her. "But this is between you and me."_

Everyone knew that Spot did what it took to get his information and things, yet nobody quite understood the magnitude of his determination to stay on top save for those who did his work. August supplied information for him; she was his wealth of information. When he discovered her aptitude for stealing, he put her to work, and it was she who supplied him with most of his "riches". He made no effort to keep this a secret; therefore, the kids in the city made no effort in keeping their hatred towards him a secret. And yet their fear kept them from a revolution. Rumors about Spot's sanity spread like wildfire. "You can't trust an insane person," they'd deduce. "As a matter of fact, he's much stronger as a crazy person." They were right in that way. His passion had never taken him further or made him more powerful.

And yet he was convinced, absolutely convinced that these people loved him, that they did these things for him out of their own will. He refused to see the truth; he couldn't see the truth because he had his own truths. And in a way, his truth was real. It wasn't the silent threat of death looming over their heads that brought them back; no, they knew that it was something else. Something not one of those girls ever dared attempt to name. 

August Cartman could have ruined everything. She could have dethroned me, put that dumbass, Jack Kelly, on the alert for me. She could have broken the one tie left between Brooklyn and Manhattan. She could have alerted those moral shitheads in Manhattan that Brooklyn was set to bring them down. That Brooklyn was set to control more of the city than ever before.

It doesn't matter. The boys are strong, fearless, hostile. Just as I, they know what it takes; they understand my role in this city, the dream that has now become reality, for I have decided to live it out daily. I have decided to make the dream my own reality. And my boys know this. Those who I rule over and command work as one body to cater to my needs, despite any differences amongst them in looks or personality.

August, Wren, and I were different on the outside, but inside, we were all the same. On the inside, we all had fear. On the inside, we all had blue blood. That very thought tempted me more than anything. It was not just I who had the deep, rich liquid pulsing through my veins, but everyone did. I wanted to see it more than anything. Their fear was beautiful. I could feel it when I moved inside them; I could smell it on their skin and in their hair. I needed it. I needed them, and they needed me for fear of their lives, of their friends' lives, and for their own satisfaction.

I decided that the blue made us similar enough. That made us one. The three of us could move together, work for one cause, for my cause, for our cause. We were one; we all had blue blood; we all played for one cause. That made everything okay. Even the killing. Even the killing.

_ "So, you got me Racetrack's nice, new blade. Good girl," he said, smiling coldly. He could already sense the night racing through him, envision himself running wildly, feel the sweat and the cold and the silence. Plopping down on the bed, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, using his match to light the candle next to his mattress, as well. Without asking, she took a cigarette from him for later. "What else?"_

"What else did you want? You asked for nothing else."

"On the contrary, I asked for much more than you have ever given me. Wren is much better than you are, August."

"Fuck you, Conlon. Fuck the whole idea of Wren. She's not tangled up in your shit anymore." He could see a hint of worry in her eyes. She worried about being replaced, what would happen when he grew tired of using her, and most of all, how he would dispose of her.

"Wren wants to come back, August," Spot told her, lazily eyeing her as he leaned back against the wall, allowing the cooler surface to rush relief to his naked back. "She wants it bad. She wants me bad."

"Yeah, right," she replied. "Nobody wants you that bad. Nobody." She said the words, but he could feel that she trembled with fear on the inside. Would Wren fall back into his trap? Would Wren really work for him? Even better than seeing her with those worried thoughts was that she knew. She knew that everybody wanted him that badly. She knew that Wren did, that she did. August wanted Spot Conlon more than anything, her greed for the feeling of him inside of her was overpowering. Enough that she would do whatever it took. Even killing. Even killing.  
---

Breathing hurriedly, she searched his pockets and took what was in them. Even the smallest thing could get her a reward. Finding a few pennies, a piece of string, and a knife, she stuffed the treasures in her pocket and sighed. The rush of the water pounded in her ears formidably; she could feel her heart pounding rapidly. Night filled his empty brown eyes, and she watched him with a pang of sorrow. This was her least favorite part.

She grabbed his arms and heaved, then let go and found that only his head, arms, and shoulders made it into the water. The cold liquid ran over his open eyes; she wanted to reach in and close them, but Spot said they were to have open eyes. Though he wasn't there, he would know if she did something wrong. He always knew. "Damnit," she whispered. After wrinkling her eyebrow and surveying the situation, she forced herself to kneel by his waist and roll him into the water.

She didn't even stay long enough to really see him fall, but she heard the splash and knew it was done.  
---

_ "Don't be foolish," he shot at her, seething. "Don't be such a foolish, foolish girl. You don't understand, do you? Do you?" His voice rose to a scream, to terrifying white anger. If his boys weren't used to that sort of noise, they would have awoken in a panic. August was beginning to grow accustomed to it as well. Still he could see a tiny flinch, he could feel her heart trembling inside of her, overflowing with its blue blood. He knew his anger caused her to be simultaneously feared and aroused, for he was the scary, wild boy in her nightmares chasing after her. Her fear was so perfect, so pure._

"Of course you don't understand," he muttered. "Of course not. You don't know the plan. You don't know." And through his mind ran: take her. Take her. She'll speak. Silence. Silence. We need silence. It is everything.

"What fucking plan, Spot?" August asked loudly. "What are you talking about?" When he looked up at her, he looked different. His eyes were wild, uninhibited, feral. He was no longer the Spot who waited for others to serve him, to come to him, to make a mistake. Though still distant, he was no longer cold; he was heated with anger, with frenzy, with passion.

"The plan in which I take over the city. Everyone will work for me. Everyone will be mine. Jack Kelly, your stupid little leader will be nothing. He will serve me. Because this protection you wish to serve him by serving me, oh, how little you know. How little you know. It has made me only more powerful, smarter, all the better for your service.

We will invade. We will conquer. Force him to publicly serve me. Force all of the others to serve me. They will be mine; all of the Manhattan scum will be mine. They serve me; they belong to me."

He starting throwing things about the room, punctuating continued cries about his plans. Silence. Silence. It ran through his heart hurriedly, through that blood, panicking. Silence. Take her. Take her. "And nobody will be feared more than I. Nobody."

"You're not as powerful as you think you are, Conlon," she told him, trying to be defiant, trying not to let her legs shake.

"Fuck you, August!" He cried. "You didn't know anything about me, so how could you tell?" He paused briefly, regarding her, breathing hard. "But now you know too much."

"I'm getting the hell out of here," August said, trembling, eyes darting quickly to the window, to Wren's boots and the broken glass. She never saw him quite like that before.

"Oh, no," he said viciously, finally indulging the urges seizing him all along, grabbing her arm tightly. "You're not going back to Manhattan to spill to your little friends. You're coming with me."

Surely it is known by all of New York that I have never been denied earthly pleasures. I have never been denied anything. August Cartman was no exception.

_ She melted away into the darkness, her blood shining in the moonlight. It wasn't blue. It was red. The voice inside was silenced, just what he was yearning for._

And my heart can sit in front of me, it can leak blue, it can watch me become blue, become something I'm not yet everything I am at the exact same time. Soon it will embody the dream instead of drive it.  
---

Line stolen from Heather Kropf, then modified. The real line is, "This love was tangled in our blood."

THANKS TO: Dfly, my lovely beta, for putting up with me, and Pokey for information about a really stupid thing. 


End file.
